


from now until the end of the world

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Community: spnspringfling, First Time, Last people on Earth, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Episode: s10e23 My Brother's Keeper, Sibling Incest, Supernatural Spring Fling, Supernatural Spring Fling 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 03:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: Darkness. Light.





	from now until the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riyku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/gifts).



> Written for the 2016 Spring Fling challenge, for riyku and her gorgeous prompts: _from now until the end of the world_ and _stargazing_. 
> 
> Set after the season 10 finale; alternate take on what followed some of the events of that episode. None of the Amara storyline happens here.

Saving people. Hunting things. Trying to do right and screwing up royally sometimes, but always with the best of intentions at heart. That's all Dean knows how to do. 

But there aren't any people anymore. There aren't any _things_ anymore, either--no demons, no angels, no ghosts or gods or ghouls. As far as Dean can tell, there's no one left besides him and Sam. 

*

They watch Chicago burn through the windshield of their car. 

It's like watching a movie on TV. (Except for the smell. They're gagging on it even downwind.) 

The dirty snowbanks blocking the highway bleed in the sunset, melt in the heat of the fire. Sam backs the Impala away, makes a U-turn, and drives. They've seen this too often by now; they know there's nothing they can do here.

Dean remains quiet in the passenger seat. Night descends upon them, a wispy-thin blanket that can't smother the flames. He tries not to look, but his gaze keeps getting pulled to the glow in the side-view mirror. 

"It's almost beautiful, isn't it?" Sam says, sounding just as mesmerized by the sight. "If you didn't know what you were looking at."

Dean cuts his gaze to the side-view mirror again. _Yeah_ , he thinks. _Horror is its own kind of beauty_. But that's not something he wants (or even knows how) to articulate without sounding like the sort of monster they've spent their whole lives chasing.

"Objects in mirror are closer than they appear," Dean says under his breath. 

Sam responds by stepping harder on the gas pedal.

*

They bunk down in the car for the night, parked near a gas station off I-90. The glow of the burning metropolis behind them doesn't lessen, rising and falling through the dark hours before dawn like the incandescent breath of some invisible creature. They're both exhausted, but each time Dean surfaces from a nightmare he finds Sam still awake in the front seat, eyes gleaming like faint stars.

"Sam," Dean says the third time he claws his way out of a hell so private even he can't remember it. He waits for Sam to look at him. "You okay?"

It's too dark for Dean to decipher the emotion on his brother's face, but it's all there in Sam's voice for him to hear. "Are _you_?" 

The inky space separating the backseat from the front becomes an impassable river. Dean pulls his blanket tighter around himself, tracing Sam's hunched silhouette with his gaze over and over again.

Sleep eludes them both for the rest of the night.

*

From behind the horizon smoke rises high into the air, giant plumes that resemble clouds, as if the whole of the sky has come crashing down into the earth. 

They don't look at it. Dean stands in the middle of the deserted highway, watching Sam spy on the gas station across from them through their binoculars. 

"Looks empty," Sam says. 

Dean eyes the Taco Bell sign above the restaurant adjacent to the gas station, squints at the solitary station wagon in the parking lot. Its doors are all ajar and sunlight glints off the rolled-up windows, blinding-bright. No way to tell what might be inside it. 

"Dean," Sam says. "We really need more supplies." 

Dean watches his own breath dissipate like mist in the frosty morning air. "I know," he says, looking at his brother. They've been living off whatever they can find at places like this, because venturing into any (formerly) populated areas is unthinkable. 

They walk back to the Impala, and Dean gets into the driver's side. He sits there gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white and his fingers go numb, burning gasoline while he stares and stares at the station wagon like it's the worst kind of apparition he's ever had to confront.

"I'll do it," Sam says. His voice is laced with all the caring that Dean craves but doesn't feel like he deserves. "You don't have to look inside." 

"Yeah," Dean rasps, maneuvering the car into the parking lot. "Yeah, I do." 

* 

Two days later, and the picnic table between them is littered with leftovers from their breakfast. Candy wrappers, orange peels, a bruised half-eaten apple, Sam's empty water bottle. Dean holds a soda can in his hand, eyes closed against the morning glare. 

"Dean," Sam says. 

Dean blinks his eyes open and casts a sidelong glance at his brother. He sips his soda, not in a hurry to speak, half turning on the bench and taking in the view around them. Trees and more trees, miles of evergreens blurring into the hazy distance. He wonders if it's always been this peaceful there. 

"Dean," Sam says again. "I've- I've been thinking. What if-" 

A beat. "What if what?" Dean coaxes when Sam doesn't elaborate.

Sam swallows, and Dean follows the bob of his Adam's apple with his eyes. "What if we did this," Sam whispers.

 _This_. People driving off bridges, throwing themselves out of windows, walking into the ocean to drown. Sitting quietly at home while their towns and cities burned to the ground. Mass suicide on a global scale. _Like a bad M. Night Shyamalan movie_ , Dean had said. Only that this time it wasn't funny. 

Dean's mulled over the same thing, of course. Impossible not to, and just as impossible to fully wrap his head around it. But he can sense the desperation in his brother, the near reckless need to voice the unspeakable. 

It's been months. It's well past time for Dean to own it. 

"Not you," Dean says. The rumble of his voice is like rockfall, looking to crush everything in its path. 

"Yes, me," Sam insists. "I swore to myself I'd do anything to get the Mark off your arm. Whatever it took, Dean. And that's exactly what I did."

"I killed _Death_ ," Dean says. _And the rest of the world followed right after_.

Sam sighs, a wretched, shuddering sound. "For me," he says. "You did it for me."

"Sammy." Dean says his brother's name like it's a confession, all rushed and breathless. "I did it for myself."

 _And that's the truth, isn't it?_ Dean thinks. When given the option to either leave his brother behind or kill him he couldn't do either. Losing Sam was too steep a price for him to pay, even if the trade-off was the rest of the world.

Sam looks at Dean like he's seeing him for the last time and is trying to memorize his soul. He looks at Dean like he's seeing him for the first time but recognizes him all the same. 

Dean returns his brother's gaze, unflinching. It's only his insides that tremble and flicker. 

_Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds_.

*

Fire. Fire blazing in Dean's dreams, fire pulsing at the heart of everything. 

Pillars of flame by night, pillars of cloud-like smoke by day, glowing-swirling everywhere and guiding them nowhere.

And yet. (And yet.)

Among all their grief and loss, they find that they're not lost: any roads they choose always lead them to each other.

* 

With spring comes weather like they've never seen. Filthy rain that falls down in torrents, sooty-black storms that stain the world with mourning. 

They don't go back to the bunker. Its underground rooms had felt like a tomb during the last days of the world, even though all the dead had lain outside. It's nothing but a black hole now with no electricity, and the thought of navigating all those dark echoing spaces fills them both with dread. 

They take shelter where they can, haunting every place they pass through. Abandoned farmhouses, empty motels, and the two of them the only ghosts around. 

*

They're somewhere down south when a heavy cloudburst catches them out in the open. The road they're on is suddenly a mire, and the Impala keeps dragging and stalling, spitting out noises that has Dean wincing in sympathy with her. 

"There," Sam says. He has his window rolled down just enough for him to peek outside.

Dean wipes the windshield with his sleeve, acutely aware of how useless a gesture that is. Grimy raindrops splatter and smear together on the other side of the glass, faster than the Impala's wipers can handle. He has no idea what the blurry thing up ahead is, but he drives toward it anyway. 

_It_ turns out being a small bait and tackle, barely more than a shack. _Jim Bob's bait shop_ , the sign out front says. _Cold beer and hunting license renewal!_ They make a sprint for it after Dean parks the car, but the few seconds it takes them to reach the porch are enough to soak them through. 

It's gloomy inside, shadows pooling in every nook and corner. There's a hint of mustiness in the air that they ignore. Duffels and camping mats go on the counter, racks and shelves get pushed out of the way. Dean strips down to his boxers and spreads his wet clothes over one of the displays to dry, and Sam does the same. 

Dusk finds them sitting on the floor, wearing ugly fishing t-shirts and having a meal that consists of cheese-flavored crackers and lukewarm beer. 

"Not as advertised," Dean says, pulling a face at the bottle in his hand. 

Sam only manages a parody of a shrug, as if something immense is pinning him down and true movement is an impossibility. 

"So what do you think?" Dean tries again. "We in Georgia? Or maybe it's Alabama."

"What difference does it make," Sam says, his tone weary. 

Rain pitter-patters on the roof, against the window panes. Packs of feral dogs yip and howl at the swampy night, making Dean shiver. The kerosene lamp behind Sam forms a single circle of light in the room, a golden halo burning fitfully in the dark. 

And that's how sorrow slinks into the room, inch by inch until it's so huge they're breathing it in along with the dust and the damp. Dean aches for his brother, chest tight with a mix of emotions so potent it disarms him of every shield and defensive layer.

"Sam," Dean whispers. "Sammy." 

Sam gives him a long, wistful look. "I'm beat," he finally says. "We should both get some sleep."

Dean wants to say something more, but all he does is watch Sam crawl onto his sleeping mat while his brain fumbles for words that he can't find. 

* 

He doesn't know what wakes him up. 

It's the kind of quiet that exists only in the small hours of the night. The kind of quiet that feels like a dimension in itself.

The rain's stopped. The flame in the kerosene lamp is a mere afterthought of light. Sam's breathing is the softest of whispers, slow and steady, imbued with a sweetness that has Dean aching again. He looks asleep, lost in dreams, but a lifetime of sharing rooms with his brother tells Dean that Sam's awake. 

They're lying down facing each other, so close they're almost touching. 

_Our whole lives_ , Dean thinks. _Why haven't we?_ The ache in his chest sinks into his gut, frissons into something inescapable. 

The lamp sputters out. 

Light sparks inside Dean.

The urge to know if his brother's heartbeat is as frantic as his own has Dean's hands twitching. So he reaches out. He raises his left hand and presses it against Sam's chest. 

Sam's breaths turn shallow in the charged darkness. 

The thumping of Sam's life under his palm is the most devastating thing that Dean has ever felt. Here in this rotting shack in a nowhere land on a murdered planet the beauty of his brother's heartbeat is the one thing that has the power to undo it all, the one thing that still holds any meaning. 

Dean wraps his arm around Sam. He presses closer to him, he brushes their lips together. 

Sam's fingers dig into Dean's shoulder, bunch into the cheap cotton of Dean's t-shirt.

They're kissing, then. Mouths slanting together, sucking lips and licking tongues, panting breaths that Dean can't separate as his or Sam's. Dean's shaking, he's burning, he's aching, he's _aching_ , so dizzy, he's drowning, he's dying, he's making noises he's never heard. He gives it all to Sam, all the yearning in him, everything he's ever been. 

"Don't," Sam begs, pulling so hard at Dean he rips his t-shirt. "Don't, Dean, please don't-" 

Dean freezes, mouth going dry. _Sam_ , he wants to say. _Sammy_ , he wants to cry, but there's no breath left in him for speech. He holds his brother, imagines the tears in his eyes, feels the trembling of his body.

"Dean," Sam says. He sounds terrified. He sounds wrecked. 

"Sam-" Dean rasps. 

But Sam doesn't let him finish. He pulls at Dean again, tugs him closer, closer, on top of him as he rolls onto his back. "Don't let me go," he's saying, desperate. "Never, Dean, don't, please, never let me go."

Dean slumps against his brother, weak with relief. Sam's rocking under him, long legs spreading to bracket him, hands sliding under his clothes and Dean shudders, he shakes, he surges forward like a wave breaking against the shore.

Sam's hair smells like ashes. His skin tastes like old sweat. But it's Sam. Sam under him, Sam wrapped around him. It's his brother, and Dean kisses him, Dean fills him up, and soon enough they both smell and taste like nothing but heat and each other. 

He keeps Sam close as they fall asleep, so close to him. The aching thing inside him is unrelenting. Just as it should be.

"Never," Dean whispers, sending his promise out into the universe. _Forever_.

*

The Impala carries them only as far as her last tank of gas will let her.

They try settling down. More than once. They try, but the sudden violence of humanity's passing is still apparent everywhere. Staying in one place for too long makes them uneasy, and the only cure for that particular kind of restlessness is for them to keep driving. Just keep driving, knowing all too well that soon enough they won't be able to drive anywhere anymore. 

They spend their final night with her reminiscing about good and bad times alike. Music and games that they played, blood and tears that they shed, words and moans and silences exchanged. In the morning they empty her trunk of everything they can carry and run their hands over her in a drawn-out farewell. 

As they walk down the road, the cracks in the tarmac feel like ever-widening chasms. They keep looking back at the Impala, watching her grow smaller and smaller until she's just a glittering spot of light under the sunny sky. Until even that fades from view. 

They know they won't be coming back this way again. 

*

Weeks go by. Months. Months that somehow turn into years. 

"Listen, Dean," Sam says one day, out of the blue, like he's answering a question that Dean never knew he'd asked. "We got it all wrong. The world didn't end." 

They're sitting on a rocky overhang that juts out over the Pacific. Halfway between the coast and the horizon something's rising from the ocean: out of the blue (out of the blue blue sea) a pod of humpback whales swim up to the surface together, spraying the air with their collective exhales, water clinging to their slick forms like a second skin. A host of dark shapes circle around and around below the froth-capped waves, tinged red and indigo by the sunset. 

Dean watches in awe for a while, goose bumps blooming across his skin, tears brimming in his eyes. Sound fills the encroaching evening, lilting notes and shrill ones, a chorus of birds and frogs and crickets, their voices no longer silenced or drowned out. 

Sam's right; the world is teeming with life. 

"We did this?" Dean whispers. 

" _You_ did it," Sam says. He pulls Dean closer to him, pulls Dean down with him, and Dean can think of nowhere else he'd rather be than right here, in this moment, in his brother's arms. 

The night is strewn with far-flung stars. They lie under the pinpricked darkness wrapped around each other and Dean lets Sam in, deep, sweet, deeper, sweeter. Dean sinks into his brother like the sky crashing into the ground, heaven and earth coming together like something foretold.

Love. Love like gravity. Love like fire. Love at the heart of who they are. 

They lie together in the starlit darkness, but they are wrapped in light.

*

Years pass. Decades, maybe. Dean doesn't age, and neither does Sam. 

The planet grows green and lush as a garden. (Heaven and earth come together.) Heaven on Earth. 

Sam and Dean wander the continent, retracing routes they'd traveled long ago. 

"Look at this," Dean says. They're walking through a vast field that sprouted among the ruins of what was once Manhattan. 

"Yeah?" Sam says, not getting it. 

Dean offers him a lightning-quick, blink-and-you-miss-it grin. "It's a clover field."

It's an old, old reference. It's a terrible joke, but Sam gifts him with a dimpled smile as radiant as the sun. 

*

The Yellowstone Caldera spews six thousand days of winter into the atmosphere when it erupts. Six thousand days of desolation and death. 

The ground rumbles for hours ahead of the eruption, presaging something momentous. Sam and Dean camp out under the open sky for fear that the ancient cliffside pueblo they've been calling home will bury them alive. 

The sound of the ensuing explosion is so loud it reaches their ears, rolls past them like a thunderstorm, makes the already frightened wildlife around them flee in confusion. Volcanic ash fall will transform the entire canyon into an alien landscape in the span of weeks. 

They move into the innermost chambers of the pueblo in the aftermath, but the air tastes gritty and bitter even there. 

"It's how nature works," Sam's telling Dean. His arms are wrapped around Dean's chest, his heartbeat steady and comforting against Dean's back. "It's cyclical. This isn't the first supervolcano eruption in the history of the planet, and it won't be the last. But life, Dean, _light_ , it always comes back. You know that. We both know that."

Firelight casts trembling shadows upon the rock walls, makes the petroglyphs surrounding them come alive. Creatures that they can't readily identify, shapes and spirals that mirror the earth and the sky. Rituals and stories lost in the murky well of time. 

"Figures you'd find solace in books," Dean says. "Even when you don't actually _have_ any books. Ain't no limit to how much you can hold in that big brain of yours, huh?"

Sam's laughter is a soft huff against Dean's temple. "You love my big brain," he murmurs. 

"That I do," Dean says. "Love all your parts, Sammy. Especially the extra big ones." 

Sam presses a kiss to Dean's cheek, another one to the side of Dean's neck, and Dean smiles when he feels Sam's smile. But Sam sighs then, and Dean sighs too. 

"We could go south. There's a whole sky down there that we didn't get to see yet. No reason to stay up here breathin' in pulverized glass."

"Yeah," Sam whispers. "Yeah."

The sky they've known their whole lives is hidden behind a thick layer of black ash and toxic gases. Traversing the continent on foot, it takes them a long, long time to emerge from under that shroud. 

Through dark days and darker nights, Sam and Dean are never out of each other's reach. 

*

"Is that a star cluster?" Dean muses out loud. The rainforest they've been trekking through is exuberant even in the cooling climate, but the sight of all that brilliance tugs at him almost as intensely as Sam does.

"It's a whole galaxy. Two of them," Sam says, pointing them out. "The Large Magellanic Cloud, and the Small Magellanic Cloud."

It's their first night under the full splendor of the Southern Hemisphere skies. Their breaths tint the air white, expand into transient clouds of their own. 

Sam keeps describing stars and constellations until he exhausts his knowledge. Until the clear sound of his voice trickles away into wonderstruck silence.

And there are no words. No words to encompass the distances above them. No words to illuminate the depths inside them.

What's left of the night passes in intimate quiet, their eyes wide open to take in all that age-old light. 

*

They explore as far down south of the equator as they can go without venturing out over the ocean. They stand together on the edge of the world and shout each other's names into the wave-tossed yonder until their giddiness dissolves into laughter. 

"There used to be this theory," Sam says. Later, much later, when they're bedded down for the night under a canopy of stars yet again. "That something only truly exists if it's observed. Like, it only _becomes_ when you look at it."

"Yeah?" Dean asks. "So what, the rest of the universe out there could be formless? And it's just been waitin' all this time for us to shape it into something." 

Sam shrugs, their shoulders brushing together. "Pretty much, yeah. But also, that things are real only in connection to each other. That it's more about the connection itself than about anything else."

Dean doesn't have to wonder about that part. It's something that he's always known, even without knowing that he knew.

*

So many sunrises. So many sunsets. 

Every day lived together feels like learning new words in a familiar language. The press of years imbues patterns with meaning, makes repetition into rhyme. 

They walk roadless wildlands, heading east, heading west, meandering their way back across forests and valleys until they rediscover the northern reaches where they'd grown up in. The dead gray land that they'd left behind is abloom with color, as if in welcome.

Reawakened and transformed, the world around them beckons, making them long to see the new, making them ache to find the old.

Further north it's the sky that holds them captive once more; the aurora shivers above them, bathing everything in pinks and greens and almost-blues. 

"How can something you've seen countless times already still be so amazing?" Sam asks, his face raised up to the light. Under the shifting hues he looks otherworldly, an ethereal vision made flesh. 

He's all Dean can look at. "More than just amazing, Sammy."

Sam smiles, a slight curving of the lips, but his eyes hold nothing back when their gazes meet. 

Not for the first time (not for the last time) Dean glimpses _everything_.

*

Groves like cathedrals rise up from the ground, leafy domes and spires pushing high into the sky. Shards of light dapple the mossy earth, sway with the breeze that moves through the treetops. Cradled by the warmth of Sam's body around his, Dean allows himself to drift. (For an hour, for a day or a season or a decade, it's all only a moment in time.)

He dreams that he's inside Sam's dreams. He dreams that Sam's dreams are the same as his. 

They're wind, and together they rustle across wide grassy plains. They're currents that flow under saltwater seas and freshwater rivers, they're heavenly bodies always orbiting each other. They're all the light that's ever been. 

Sam's arm is still around him when Dean wakes. He rouses his brother and they translate their dreams into the real, shared breaths and shared blood, rocking bodies that strain ever closer. Their insides come alight with each other, pulse bright and infinite like a universe of their own making. 

*

Decades, then. Centuries. Millennia.

The constellations change, slow-dancing across the firmament. Supernovas erupt in neighboring arms of the galaxy, one after the other, a chain reaction of light. The moon floats smaller above them, a silver fish slipping away in the stream of time, yet nights have never been brighter. 

They watch the sky burst and splinter with luminous fire. 

"I think I did that," Dean says. "All those centuries ago, Sammy." He looks at his brother, love breaking him open, making him shine as if he were a star himself. The brightest one of all. "I did it all for you," Dean says, all hushed and reverent, like the holiest of secrets. 

And that's the truth, that's the absolute truth. It's Dean's most sacred vow: to keep Sammy safe, keep Sammy close, keep Sammy forever. 

When Sam kisses him, the ache inside Dean flares up fiercer and more beautiful than anything could ever be. 

*

(Light. Light at the heart of them. Light at the heart of everything.)

*

Numberless years blend together into a succession of centuries. Insects and animals evolve into strange new creatures that no one will ever name or tame. The magnetic poles reverse time and again; ice ages come and go, oceans rise and fall, mountains erode into dust. Continents drift, collide, become a single land mass. The Earth spins around the ever-brightening sun. 

"It won't last," Sam says.

They're on a beach, a strand of white dunes separating the jungle behind them from the turbulent sea before them. The air is pungent with ozone, announcing the oncoming storm. 

"What won't?" Dean asks. 

"The Earth," Sam says. "The sun. All the suns everywhere."

Dean sighs. "Still a long time until then, Sammy." 

"It gets closer every day."

"Sammy," Dean says again. He pulls Sam to him and holds him in his arms, watching the darkening horizon over Sam's shoulder.

"Everything, Dean," Sam whispers. "Everything."

Stray rays of sunlight spill over the deep, tremulous silver and glistening gold. Grains of sand wink and sparkle like the hint of treasure under their bare feet.

"Not everything," Dean breathes. And he means it. He _feels_ it. 

Love, love, more than love, so bright and alive inside him, older than even he knows. As if it's always been there. As if it's the first thing that ever existed: the force, the spark.

The start.

*

Ages upon ages. Aeons. 

The sun is a bloated red giant looming over the scorched Earth. The oceans are gone, replaced by heaving seas of molten rock. 

"Don't be scared," Dean mouths against Sam's ear. They're wrapped around each other as the whole world burns. 

_Carried you out of the fire once. Let me carry you again_.

Together they float away, away, beyond the cinder of Mars, beyond mammoth Jupiter and ringless Saturn. Evaporating moons, chunks of ancient ice that trickle water and methane into space.

There's no sound out there. Out there they have no voices. No words to describe the sheer terror and beauty of it all. 

They hold on tighter to each other as they slowly spin beyond the boundaries of the solar system. 

*

All around them, the Milky Way completes its billion year merge with the Andromeda galaxy. Blueshift, redshift, light and more light gliding across the dark expanses of the aether. 

Adrift in the vast night, they remember the world that was. The feel of the road under the Impala's wheels, the people they called family. Towering cities of glass and steel ablaze in the sunlight. Small towns, rows of newly-washed laundry flapping in the wind like festival banners. The shapes of leaves and seashells, the songs of birds and wolves and whales, fireflies shimmering on balmy summer evenings. The smell and rush of all of the Earth's long-gone waters. 

They touch each other and feel the rush of their blood, the warmth of their bodies like a fever in the coldness of interstellar space.

There's no air out here. No air, no air for them to breathe. 

They breathe each other. 

*

Cosmic time. Immeasurable time. 

Galaxies drift farther and farther apart. Stars expand and contract, explode and implode, spin and collapse. 

Dean and Sam bear witness to the heat death of the universe. 

And yet. (And yet.) Together they still burn.

In the waning glow of a scattering nebula, Dean maps his brother's body with his hands and lips, and Sam spends a small eternity connecting the constellations of freckles on Dean's skin with his fingertips. 

*

Darkness reigns. Silence and cold stretch across all the regions of space-time, both near and far. 

They cling to each other in the pitch blackness, wrapped in shadow, and in the absolute stillness Dean knows that Sam hears every word they haven't been able to say for too long now, just like he does. 

They're as slow as an unwinding clock. It takes so long, so long, but then Sam's lips are against Dean's. Sam's kissing him, he's kissing him, and Dean kisses him back, Dean pours himself into his brother. 

They're one soul. They've always been one soul. 

Darkness. Darkness with no end in sight. 

But Dean knows; Sam knows. They hold on to each other because they know.

It's always darkest before the Light.

***


End file.
